


The fall of Camelot

by Morrie_Wilde



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon arwen, No happy ending but hope...a lot of hope, Not really angsty....more nostalgic if not just plain tragic, One Shot, Other, Paganism, Suicide, The battle of camlann never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29401614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morrie_Wilde/pseuds/Morrie_Wilde
Summary: King Arthur. A story every children fell asleep to. The king and his knights, the chivalry, the morals, the romance. The legend. But there's one thing often left out, a thing which instead of lulling the children to sleep would make them cry, and grief. Brew a nice cup of tea and cocoon yourself in a warm blanket for I am about to narrate you the untold story of King Arthur and the fall of Camelot.
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	The fall of Camelot

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this is not a critic towards Christianism. We are all free to have our own faith, or none at all, and I don't believe that a religion is superior to an other one in any way. 
> 
> Love you all xx

_A story never ends well. Whether the words lay down the tragedy or not, it never ends well. Death, heartbreak, illness, no matter what you do, or what you might hope for, a story ends in tears, and each souls yields to the darkness for there’s no escaping the bane of death. So why bother living you might ask? The answer rests at the bottom of a nice glass of wine, the chirp of a swallow, the hand of your lover through your hair, the beauty of a midnight conversation._

_You might wonder, which story could still be worth telling? For centuries, we have been gathering by the bonfire, sharing tales of an other time. Lovers, enemies, betrayal, magic, friendship, quests, the wrath of gods and the birth of evils : we've heard it all. But isn’t this the beauty of story telling?_

_So if you will, please allow me._

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a man who worn a crown. His kingdom was surrounded by the sea, clothed with thick forests. At his side, there was a beautiful woman, her tenderness and cleverness only equalled her beauty. A castle of grey stones stood proud on top of the hill, a lighthouse within a land of myth and magic.

Magic. The poetry of the inhabitant of the land. Flowers brighter than the sun, water streams lulling the children at night, crops feeding any hungry mouths and protecting its people from the misery trotting from the continent.

A beautiful scenery the poet called Albion. An utopia in the heart of men that a few got to see. All was well in Albion.

But, in the deepest of the deepest forest, broken hearts were crying, tearing their souls apart, ready to fight for what they believed in. Magic might be in every living thing the human eye could see; the crown forbid its use. A tyrant, long gone since, had hunt down any sorcerer and burnt then alive on the pyre. Some said it was blind hatred. Others said it was the result of a broken heart. Decades later, a woman, shattered and emotionally bludgeoned lived for only one purpose : revenge. At least, it was what the king believed. After all, he knew his sister, wouldn’t he? Little did he know revenge had nothing to do with what was consuming her heart. No. She was inhabited by the greatest fire one can know : survival. Her, and her kind, were only surviving, fighting for their right to exist. Could one be so unnatural, so forbidden that death would be all their deserve? And for what? For being them, for being born blessed by the love of the universe?

And so, the rightful sorceress fought. Many men, women and children fell under the red and gold swords, bells rang throughout the land for a whole moon cycle and whilst the king celebrated his victory, she smiled. Winning simply by surviving, again.

But can everybody leave the battlefield victorious when the sole essence of the right of existence runs down the hills like the blood of the innocents massacred in the name of a greater cause they could not even start to fathom?

* * *

_King Arthur. A story every children fell asleep to. The king and his knights, the chivalry, the morals, the romance. The legend. But there's one thing often left out, a thing which instead of lulling the children to sleep would make them cry, and grief. Brew a nice cup of tea and cocoon yourself in a warm blanket for I am about to narrate you the untold story of King Arthur and the fall of Camelot._

* * *

Peace had been blessing the kingdom for many seasons. Crops were feeding stomachs and souls, bread and roses. The elderly were still reminiscent of the reign of Uther Pendragon, but his son had proven to be fairer, kinder and overall, a good king. Any new taxes were voted via the people, and Queen Guinevere had made a point of creating a system of education for the lower town and above. She had turned her late father's workshop into a blacksmith apprentice centre where her brother, Sir Elyan, was teaching the craftsmanship of beating iron. The women were now gathering once a week, sharing recipes, sewing techniques, and the queen could often be seen attending these meetings. As a former servant, she wanted to insure the mothers and sisters of the realm had good knowledge of safety within a household, but also a good grasp on the law and their mental well-being.

Gaius, the old crown physician, was holding monthly lessons for a member of each surrounding villages so the youth could go back home, taking with them the basic knowledge of medicinal practises.

No one had a bad word to say about the king. All was good, if not better than it had ever been. However, a dark shadow was still hovering above the plains; the ban on magic had never been lifted. Truth be told, the ban was not endorsed, and no man had burnt to ashes since the new king had stepped into his father's place. It had all become a case of don’t tell. The question of magic users had been shoved under a rug , and maybe with time, the ban would just become one of these old laws, forgotten on a dusty shelf only to rediscovered in a few century time.

* * *

_No one believes in magic anymore, or just a few still do. Only myths and legends, that’s all what magic is. Stories. Magic sawn within the words of an author, giving birth to creatures and gods, and knights and kings, and love and death. One might see magic as an old rumour, a “once upon a time", but to others, magic is still here, all around us. You just have to open your eyes and your heart, and you might just see it._

* * *

Lost in the woods, Morgana had been observing the life in Camelot, a life she was no longer part of. All craving for the crown, power, and justice were no more. Sat at the table, her days were filled with the memories of her brother and herself, innocent children playing on the training field. She thought about Gwen, sweet Gwen, always happy to serve her, not by duty, but because she wished to do so. Now her servant was harbouring Camelot’s colour, ruling alongside Arthur, and what a great queen she was. Morgana looked around her modest cabin, and sighed. Sometimes, it felt like Emrys and Mordred were friends and foes of the last century. At night, she grieved Morgause, she grieved all the lost people, her eyelids forever tainted with the blood on her hands. The trees and the bushes all held the stains of the battle, their leaves growing bigger and stronger, fed by the dead bodies haunting the realm. As she conjured a fire in the foyer, she knew Camelot would never be her home again.

At the same time, within the castle walls, a manservant was climbing the stairs two by two, a heavy bucket of warm water in his arms. Pushing the doors to the royal chambers, he took a second to find his breath again, relieved to know this last bucket would suffice. Through the window, the King could be seen on the training field, giving a last talk to the knights. From the tip of his fingers, Merlin tested the water temperature and grimaced slightly. With a quick gesture and no spoken words, the bath started steaming, and the manservant nodded, content. It was just an other routine chore, warming up water, enchanting the wood to burn longer, a few whispered words here and there to facilitate the King’s day to day life, but the lingering fear never left Merlin. In each passing hour, he wondered if it would be his last. And even though Arthur had not spoken ill of magic since the death of his father, actions were often louder than words. Merlin was still a criminal, and the penalty of death was still too real in his mind.

Waiting for Arthur to arrive, Merlin found himself wondering. What would become of them once they will be six feet under? What would humanity remember of the great King? The druids were certain that Merlin’s name would go down in History, the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the Earth. But Merlin himself could only see his name disappear within the pages, becoming one of many nameless servant of the royal court. A great Dragon once told him Arthur would bring the golden age of Albion on the realm, and as the laughter of children echoed in the yard, Merlin sadly smiled. Arthur succeeded. The golden age was upon them and the great Dragon had peacefully passed away, his paws resting in the lake of Avalon.

The druids had moved even deeper in the forests, and Morgana, the last of the high priestess, was quiet. But Merlin could feel her, feel her sorrow. And he wondered if she could feel his own.

On the continent, going over the highest mountains, crossing through the deepest rivers, a new kind of knights were on their own quest, in the name of a single god. And Merlin ached, heart and soul.

The king entered his chamber, and like every other day, Merlin helped him out of his armour and out of clothes. Submerged in his bath, the King felt at peace. All was good in his kingdom.

* * *

_Some stories stay with us forever. From a man in a cavern to a love story set in Verona, we all have a story that will die with us. A story which shaped us. When does a story become legend however? After all, a legend is just a story we wish would be true, on some level. Something to hold on into. Believing the characters once walked the Earth, flesh and bones, bringing them back to life through our desires to believe. The magic of life through legends_.

* * *

In the lower town, voices were murmuring new tales, the tale of a man who was only preaching Love, who died for being it, and came back. They were talks about a cup, holding immense power for having collecting the blood of this man. Grail was the name. The Cup of Life was crying, its power diminishing as no one dared believe in its power.

Arthur listened. To all of it. The tales of a woman giving birth blessed by the skies, the love, the quests, the faith, the betrayal. Forgotten in the forest, Morgana was replaced by Judas. Her long black hair resembling the roots of the trees she so cherished. Her pale skin mirroring the moon she was so desperately praying to. Whilst some men were humble enough to venerate nature, the egotism of men's heart rather believe someone like them had created their world, assimilating themselves with a greater power reassembling their face. Man, the almighty power. The ultimate display of ego, Narcissus dying in vain.

Filling up the King's cup, Merlin listened to these tales. His heart ached. His whole existence was being reconsidered, and the man he so willingly served slowly stopped believing in magic. No matter the dead, the battles, the destiny they shared, Arthur never lifted the ban on magic as he less and less believed in it and it all came to be forgotten.

In the lower town, crosses replaced horseshoes above doorframes. Some children learnt how to walk, never having even heard about dragons once flying above the fields. Near the blacksmith workshop, some people were working day and night, and one morning, the bells of a chapel echoed in the streets.

Whilst quest were becoming rarer, the knights of the round table had found a new goal, a new reason to serve the King. It was said the holy grail was within the kingdom's border.

Merlin felt tired.

* * *

_Does a story cease to exists when we stop reading it? We all killed the monster under our bed by admitting it never existed. Then can we create through belief? When imagination meets reality, only then will the moon answer your prayer._

* * *

The king was growing older, the queen harboured her white hair beautifully. In the kingdom, they spoke of magic as a legend. Sir Percival had once brought the Cup of Life to his king, who discarded it in a vault under the castle. Such cup held no power after all.

In the royal chamber, Merlin spoke a few words, and grimaced as the bath water was barely lukewarm. He kneeled on the floor, exhausted. Morgana’s sorrow had become empty, and her face was fading away and he could not seize it. She was disappearing, only becoming a name. Sometimes, he forgot she used to be a Pendragon. Sometimes, he forgot she used to be real. Names and faces were so barely spoken of, he could not bring himself to remember. Avalon was slowly drying up, and the Dragon who once died there had a name. Or so Merlin believed. During some nights, he dreamt of a white smaller Dragon, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never call her. His tongue was incapable of forming the language he once spoke. Her name, her so beautiful name, was now only a few letters no-one could pronounce.

Gaius had passed away long ago. So had his mother. Their memory lived on clear as day, and Merlin often thought of Ealdor.

The Queen and the King were falling asleep soundly every night, never once bothered by the lack of royal heir. For their heir’s faith was in the hands of God, and if God was so inclined to indulge them with the gift of Life, then it shall happen. They had complete faith, and Merlin cried.

Alone in his own chambers, the loyal manservant blew the candle away, unable to conjure the weakest breeze. The flowers had bloomed many times, but he had never find the opportunity to speak his being out loud. And as the flowers were blooming more and more sheepishly, Merlin tried to find comfort in the golden age, in Albion. A destiny accomplished.

The crops were dry. The villagers prayed. The streams of water were running away from the kingdom. The villagers prayed harder.

The last high priestess was no more.

* * *

_Love a plant and it shall give you a new leaf to admire. Feed an animal from your hand and they shall come back to find comfort in your now empty hand. And if you look at the sky, you might find it is smiling right back at you. Love your god, and they will bless you. But who do you pray to when your faith is a forgotten one, a myth?_

* * *

The Queen had been crying from dusk until dawn, from dawn until dusk. The king, Arthur, the once and future King, saviour of Albion, was no more. He had died one afternoon, on a battlefield. Defending his people, in a meaningless battle, in a display of thirst for power. Fighting in the name of a god to have an excuse to kill. The sword had pierced his heart, so loving, so faithful.

The last Pendragon was no more.

And locked in his chambers, a manservant had no tears left to cry. Weaken and pale, his magic a foreign memory, his fingers lingered on the dagger once belonging to his other half. The chapel bells were chanting. He had been Love, he had been Forgiveness, he had been Compassion. He had been the son of Magic.

He had been forgotten.

He glanced towards the moon, empty. He sat down on the edge of his mediocre bed, and leaned back. One arm stretched towards the door, he brought his other hand to his throat. The dagger slashed through the skin, his arm falling at his side. The moans of pain were only muffled down by the blood drowning him.

A cloud obstructed the sky, the moon invisible to her last servant.

Magic was no more.

* * *

_A story only dies if you stop believing. Magic can be, once more. For I believe. And maybe, one day, you will too._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> So, magic eh? 
> 
> It might not be the greatest story ever told, but it is one, and that's the beauty of it. Writing. Just writing. So if you are reading this note, and you are thinking about writing something, I can only encourage you to do it. The world is your bonfire, and everything deserves to be written, everything is a tale. 
> 
> I'm sending you all my love, and I'll see you later! Xx


End file.
